Orlando Furioso

CANTO 17

AR­GU­MENT Charles goes, with his, against King Rodomont. Gryphon in No­randi­no’s tour­na­ment Does mighty deeds; Mar­tano turns his front, Show­ing how recre­ant is his nat­ural bent; And next, on Gryphon to bring down af­front, Stole from the knight the arms in which he went; Hence by the kind­ly monarch much es­teemed, And Gryphon scorned, whom he Mar­tano deemed.

I God, out­raged by our rank in­iq­ui­ty, When­ev­er crimes have past re­mis­sion’s bound, That mer­cy may with jus­tice min­gled be, Has mon­strous and de­struc­tive tyrants crowned; And gift­ed them with force and sub­tle­ty, A sin­ful world to pun­ish and con­found. Mar­ius and Syl­la to this end were nursed, Rome with two Neros and a Caius cursed;

II Domi­tian and the lat­ter An­to­nine; And, lift­ed from the low­est rab­ble’s lees, To im­pe­ri­al place and puis­sance, Max­imine: Hence Thebes to cru­el Cre­on bent her knees, Mezen­tius ruled the sub­ject Ag­iline, Fat­ten­ing his fields with blood. To pests like these Our Italy was giv­en in lat­er day, To Lom­bard, Goth, and Hun a bleed­ing prey.

III What shall I of fierce At­ti­la, what say Of wicked Ezze­line, and hun­dreds more? Whom, be­cause men still trod the crooked way, God sent them for their pain and tor­ment sore. Of this our­selves have made a clear as­say, As well as those who lived in days of yore; Con­signed to raven­ing wolves, or­dained to keep Us, his ill-​nur­tur­ing and un­use­ful sheep;

IV Who, as if hav­ing more than served to fill Their hun­gry maw, in­vite from for­eign wood Be­yond the moun­tain, wolves of greed­ier will, With them to be par­tak­ers of their food. The bones which Thrasymene and Treb­bia fill, And Can­nae, seem but few to what are strewed On fat­tened field and bank, where on their way Ad­da and Mel­la, Ron­co and Tar­ro stray.

V Now God per­mits that we should feel the spite Of peo­ple, who are hap­ly worse than we, For er­rors mul­ti­plied and in­fi­nite, And foul and pesti­lent in­iq­ui­ty. The time will come we may such ill re­quite Up­on their shores, if we shall bet­ter be, And their trans­gres­sions ev­er prove above The long en­durance of AETER­NAL LOVE.

VI The Chris­tian peo­ple then God’s placid front Must have dis­turbed with their ex­cess­es sore; Since them with slaugh­ter, rape, and rap­ine hunt, Through all their quar­ters, plun­der­ing Turk and Moor: But the un­spar­ing rage of Rodomont Proves worse than all the ills en­dured be­fore. I said that Charle­magne had made re­pair In search of him to­wards the city square.

VII Charles, by the way, his peo­ple’s butch­ery Be­holds — burnt palaces and ru­ined fanes — And sees large por­tion of the city lie In un­ex­am­pled wreck. — “Ye cow­ard trains, Whith­er in heart­less pan­ic would ye fly? Will none his loss con­tem­plate? what re­mains To you, — what place of refuge, say, is left, If this from you so shame­ful­ly be reft?

VI­II “Then shall one man alone, a pris­oned foe, Who can­not scale the walls which round him spread, Un­scathed, un­ques­tioned, from your city go, When all are by his venge­ful arm laid dead?” Thus Charle­magne, whose veins with anger glow, And shame, too strong to brook, in fury said; And to the spa­cious square made good his way, Where he be­held the foe his peo­ple slay.

IX Thith­er large por­tion of the pop­ulace, Climb­ing the palace roof, had made re­sort; For strong­ly walled, and fur­nished was the place With am­mu­ni­tion, for their long sup­port. Rodomont, mad with pride, had, in his chace Of the scared burghers, singly cleared the court, He with one dar­ing hand, which scorned the world, Bran­dished the sword; — his oth­er wild­fire hurled;

X And smote and thun­dered, ‘mid a fear­ful show­er, At the sub­lime and roy­al house’s gate. To their life’s per­il, crum­bling roof and tow­er Is tost by them that on the sum­mit wait: Nor any fears to ru­in hall or bow­er; But wood and stone en­dure one com­mon fate, And mar­bled col­umn, slab, and gild­ed beam, By sire and grand­sire held in high es­teem.

XI Rodomont stands be­fore the por­tal, bright With steel, his head and bust se­cured in mail, Like to a ser­pent, is­sued in­to light, Hav­ing cast off his slough, dis­eased and stale: Who more than ev­er joy­ing in his might, Re­newed in youth, and proud of pol­ished scale, Darts his three tongues, fire flash­ing from his eyes; While ev­ery fright­ed beast be­fore him flies.

XII Nor bul­wark, stone, nor ar­balest, nor bow, Nor what up­on the payn­im smote be­side, Suf­ficed to ar­rest the san­guinary foe; Who broke and hewed, and shook that por­tal wide, And in his fury let such day-​light through, ‘Twas easy to es­py — and might be spied — In vis­ages o’er­cast in death-​like sort, That full of peo­ple was the palace court.

XI­II Through those fair cham­bers echoed shouts of dread, And fem­inine lament from dame dis­trest; And griev­ing, through the house, pale wom­en fled, Who wept, af­flict­ed sore, and beat their breast. And hugged the door-​post and the ge­nial bed, Too soon to be by stranger lords pos­sest. The mat­ter in this state of per­il hung When thith­er came the king, his peers among.

XIV Charles turned him round to these, of vig­or­ous hand, Whom he had found in for­mer per­il true. “Are you not those that erst with me did stand ‘Gainst Agolant in As­pra­mont? In you Is vigour now so spent, (he said), the band, Who him, Troy­ano, and Al­montes slew, With hun­dreds more, that you now fear to face One of that very blood, that very race?

XV “Why should I now in con­test with the foe Less strength in you be­hold than them? Your might Up­on this hound (pur­sued the monarch) show; This hound who preys on man. — A gen­er­ous sprite The thought of death — ap­proach he fast or slow — So that he dies but well, holds cheap and light. But where you are, I doubt my for­tune ill, For by your suc­cour, have I con­quered still.”

XVI This said, he spurred his cours­er, couched his spear, And charged the payn­im; nor of life less free, Sir Ogi­er joined the king in his ca­reer; Na­mus and Oliv­er; and, with the three, Avi­no, Avo­lio, Otho, and Berlinghi­er: (For one with­out the rest I nev­er see) And on the bo­som, flanks, and on the front, All smote to­geth­er at King Rodomont.

XVII But let us, sir, for love of Heav­en, forego Of anger and of death the noi­some lore; And be it deemed that I have said enow, For this while, of that Sara­cen, not more Cru­el than strong; ’tis time in trace to go Of Gryphon, left with Orig­ille, be­fore Dam­as­cus’ gate, and him who with her came, The adul­ter­er, not the broth­er of the dame.

XVI­II Of all the cities un­der east­ern skies, Most wealthy, pop­ulous, and fair­ly dight, ‘Tis said, Dam­as­cus is; which dis­tant lies From Salem sev­en days’ jour­ney; its fair site, A fer­tile plain, abun­dant fruits sup­plies, Win­ter and sum­mer, so­journ of de­light. Shad­ing the city from the dawn­ing day, A moun­tain in­ter­cepts its ear­ly ray.

XIX Two crys­tal streams the wealthy city scow­er; Whose cur­rents, part­ed in­to many a rill, In­fi­nite gar­dens, nev­er bare of flow­er, Or stript of leaf, with grate­ful mur­mur fill: ‘Tis said the per­fumed wa­ters are of pow­er (So plen­teous­ly they swell) to turn a mill; And that who­ev­er wan­der through the streets, Scent, is­su­ing from each home, a cloud of sweets.

XX Then the high-​street gay signs of tri­umph wore, Cov­ered with showy cloths of dif­fer­ent dye, Which deck the walls, while syl­van leaves in store, And scent­ed herbs up­on the pave­ment lie. Adorned is ev­ery win­dow, ev­ery door, With car­pet­ing and finest drap­ery; But more with ladies fair, and rich­ly drest, In cost­ly jew­els and in gor­geous vest.

XXI With­in the city gates in frol­ic sport, Many are seen to ply the fes­tive dance; And here the burghers of the bet­ter sort Up­on their gay and well-​trapt cours­ers prance. A fair­er show re­mains; the sump­tu­ous court Of barons bold and vas­sals, who ad­vance, Gar­nished with what could be pro­cured, of ore And pearl, from Ind and Ery­thraean shore.

XXII For­ward Sir Gryphon pricked, with his ar­ray, Sur­vey­ing, here and there, the whole at ease; When them a knight ar­rest­ed by the way, And (such his wont and nat­ural cour­te­sies) Obliged be­neath his palace-​roof to stay; Where he let nought be want­ing which might please; And chear­ful­ly the guests, with bath re­stored, Next wel­comed at his cost­ly sup­per-​board;

XXI­II And told how he, who, No­randi­no hight, Dam­as­cus and all Syr­ia’s king­dom swayed, Na­tive and for­eign­er had bade in­vite, On whom the sword of knight­hood had been laid, To a fair joust, which at the mor­row’s light, En­su­ing, in the square was to be made. Where they might show, and with­out fur­ther far­ing, If they had val­our equal to their bear­ing.

XXIV Gryphon, though he came not that joust to see, Ac­cepts the chal­lenge of the cav­alier; For when oc­ca­sion serves, it can­not be An evil use to make our worth ap­pear: Then ques­tioned more of that solem­ni­ty; — If ’twere a wont­ed feast, held ev­ery year, Or new em­prise; by which, in mar­tial course, The monarch would as­say his war­riors’ force. –

XXV “The gor­geous feast our monarch will dis­play Each fourth suc­ceed­ing moon,” the baron said; “This is the first that you will now sur­vey; None have been held be­side. The cause which bred The solemn us­age is, that on such day The king from sovereign per­il saved his head, Af­ter four months, con­sumed in dole­ful wise, ‘Mid tears and groans, with death be­fore his eyes.

XXVI “Our monarch, who is named king No­ran­dine (Ful­ly to you the mat­ter to re­cite), Through many and many a year for her did pine, Above all oth­er damsels fair and bright, The king of Cyprus’ daugh­ter; whom, in fine, Es­poused, he, with his bride, and dame, and knight, To wait up­on her home, a fair ar­ray, To­wards his Syr­ian realm had shaped his way.

XXVII “But as we scoured the fell Carpathi­an sea, With flow­ing sheet, at dis­tance from the shore, A storm as­sailed us, of such cru­el­ty, The tem­pest even scared our pi­lot hoar. Drift­ing three days and nights at ran­dom, we Our de­vi­ous course ‘mid threat­en­ing waves ex­plore; Then, wet and weary, land ‘mid ver­dant hills, Be­tween well-​shad­ed and re­fresh­ing rills.

XXVI­II “We our pavil­ions pitch, and, ‘mid those groves, Joy­ful­ly strain our awnings over­head; And kitchens there con­struct, and rus­tic stoves, And car­pets for the in­tend­ed ban­quet spread. Mean­while through neigh­bour­ing vale the monarch roves, And se­cret wood, scarce per­vi­ous to the tread, Seek­ing red deer, goat, fal­low-​buck, and doe; And, fol­low­ing him, two ser­vants bear his bow.

XXIX “While, with much so­lace, seat­ed in a round, We from the chace ex­pect our lord’s re­turn, Ap­proach­ing us along the shore, as­tound, The orc, that fear­ful mon­ster, we dis­cern. God grant, fair sir, he nev­er may con­found Your eye­sight with his sem­blance foul and stern! Bet­ter it is of him by fame to hear, Than to be­hold him by ap­proach­ing near.

XXX “To cal­cu­late the gries­ly mon­ster’s height, (So mea­sure­less is he) ex­ceeds all skill; Of fun­gus-​hue, in place of orbs of sight, Their sock­ets two small bones like berries fill. To­wards us, as I say, he speeds out­right Along the shore, and seems a mov­ing hill. Tusks jut­ting out like sav­age swine he shows, A breast with driv­el foul, and point­ed nose.

XXXI “Run­ning, the mon­ster comes, and bears his snout In guise of brach, who en­ters on the trail. We who be­hold him fly (a help­less rout), Wher­ev­er ter­ror drives, with vis­age pale. ‘Tis lit­tle com­fort, that he is with­out Eye-​sight, who winds his plun­der in the gale, Bet­ter than aught pos­sest of scent and sight: And wing and plume were need­ed for our flight.

XXXII “Some here, some there make off, but lit­tle gain By fly­ing him; for swifter is the pest Than the south wind. Of forty, ten, with pain, Swim­ming aboard the bark in safe­ty rest. Un­der his arm some wretch­es of our train He packed, nor emp­ty left his lap or breast: And load­ed a ca­pa­cious scrip be­side, Which, like a shep­herd’s, to his waist was tied.

XXXI­II “Us to his den the sight­less mon­ster car­ried, Hol­lowed with­in a rock, up­on the shore; Of snowy mar­ble was that cav­ern quar­ried, As white as leaf, un­stained by inky score. With him with­in the cave a ma­tron tar­ried, Who marked by grief and pain a vis­age wore. With her were wife and maid, a nu­mer­ous court, Both fair and foul, of ev­ery age and sort.

XXXIV “Large as the oth­er, and that grot­to near, Al­most up­on the sum­mit of the rock, An­oth­er cav­ern was con­trived, to rear, And from the weath­er fend his wool­ly flock, Which he still herd­ed through the change­ful year; So nu­mer­ous, it were hard to count his stock: Wont in due sea­son these to pen or loose, And play the shep­herd more for sport than use.

XXXV “The flesh of man he savoured more than sheep, And this, be­fore he reached the cave, was seen. Three youths of ours, ere yet he climbed the steep, He are alive, or rather swal­lowed clean; Then moved the stone, which closed that cav­ern deep, And lodged us there. With that, to pas­ture green His flock he led, as wont, the meads among, Sound­ing the pipe which at his neck was hung.

XXXVI “Our lord, mean­while, re­turn­ing to the strand, The loss which he had suf­fered com­pre­hends; For in deep si­lence, up­on ev­ery hand, Through emp­ty tent and hut the monarch wends: Nor who has robbed him can be un­der­stand; And full of ter­ror to the beach de­scends; Whence he his sailors in the off­ing sees Un­moor and spread their can­vas to the breeze.

XXXVII “As soon as No­randi­no was in view, They launched and sent their pin­nace to con­vey The monarch thence: but he no soon­er knew Of the fell orc, and those he made his prey, Then he, with­out more thought, would him pur­sue And fol­low, where­soe’er he bent his way. To lose Lu­ci­na is such cru­el pain, That life is loath­some save he her re­gain.

XXXVI­II “When on the new­ly print­ed sand his eyes No­ran­dine fixt, he with the swift­ness sped With which the rage of love a man sup­plies, Un­til he reached the cave of which I said, Where we, en­dur­ing greater ag­onies Than e’er were suf­fered, there await in dread The orc, and deem at ev­ery sound we hear, The fam­ished brute about to re-​ap­pear.

XXXIX “The monarch to the cave did For­tune guide, When the orc’s wife alone was in the lair. See­ing the king: `Fly! — Woe to thee!’ (she cried) `Should the orc take thee!’ — `Woe­ful ev­ery where I can­not choose but be,’ (the king replied) `Whether be take or miss me, kill or spare. Not hith­er I by chance have wan­dered, I Come with de­sire be­side my wife to die.’

XXX “He af­ter­wards the dame for tid­ings pressed Of those the orc had tak­en on the shore; And of Lu­ci­na above all the rest; If slain or pris­on­er kept. With kind­ly lore, She No­randi­no, in re­turn, ad­dressed; And said Lu­ci­na lived, nor need he more Have of her fu­ture safe­ty any dread, For the orc on flesh of wom­an nev­er fed.

XLI ” `Of this you may be­hold the proof in me, And all these oth­er dames who with me dwell; Nor me, nor them the orc of­fends, so we De­part not ev­er from this cav­erned cell. But vain­ly who would from her prison flee, Hopes peace or par­don from our tyrant fell: Buried alive, or bound with grid­ing band, Of, in the sun, stript naked on the sand.

XLII ” `When hith­er he to-​day con­veyed your crew, The fe­males from the males he sev­ered not; But, as he took them, in con­fu­sion threw All he had cap­tive made, in­to that grot. He will scent out their sex; not trem­ble, you, Lest he the wom­en slay: the oth­ers’ lot Is fixt; and, of four men or six a-​day, Be sure the greedy orc will make his prey.

XLI­II ” `I have no coun­sel for you how to free The la­dy; but con­tent thy­self to hear, She in no dan­ger of her life will be, Who will our lot, in good or evil, share. But go, for love of Heav­en, my son, lest thee The mon­ster smell, and on thy body fare; For when ar­rived, he sniffs about the house, And, such his sub­tle scent, can wind a mouse.’

XLIV “To her the amorous monarch made re­ply, That he the cave would not aban­don, ere He saw Lu­ci­na, and near her to die, Than to live far from her, es­teemed more dear. — See­ing that she can noth­ing more sup­ply Fit­ted to shake the pur­pose of the peer, Up­on a new de­sign the ma­tron hits. Pur­sued with all her pains, with all her wits.

XLV “With slaugh­tered sheep and goat was ev­er­more The cav­ern filled, the nu­mer­ous flock’s in­crease, Which served her and her house­hold as a store; And from the ceil­ing dan­gled many a fleece. The dame made No­randi­no from a hoar And huge he-​goat’s fat bow­els take the grease, And with the suet all his mem­bers pay, Un­til he drove his nat­ural scent away.

XLVI “And when she thought he had im­bibed the smell Which the rank goat ex­hales, she took the hide, And made him creep in­to the shag­gy fell; Who was well cov­ered by that man­tle wide. Him in this strange dis­guise she from the cell Crawl­ing (for such was her com­mand) did guide, Where, pris­oned by a stone, in her re­treat, Was hid his beau­teous la­dy’s vis­age sweet.

XLVII “Kin No­ran­dine, as bid, took up his ground Be­fore the cav­ern, on the greensward laid, That he might en­ter with the flock who wound Home­ward; and long­ing sore, till evening stayed. At eve he hears the hol­low el­der’s sound, Up­on whose pipes the wont­ed tune was played, Call­ing his sheep from pas­ture to their rock, By the fell swain who stalked be­hind his flock.

XLVI­II “Think if his heart is trem­bling at its core, When No­randi­no hears the ap­proach­ing strains; And now ad­vanc­ing to the cav­ern door, The sight of that ter­rif­ic face sus­tains! But if fear shook him, pity moved him more: You see if he loves well or on­ly feigns! The orc re­moved the stone, un­barred the cote, And the king en­tered, amid sheep and goat.

XLIX “His flock so housed, to us the orc de­scend­ed, But first had care the cav­ern door to close: Then scent­ed all about, and hav­ing end­ed His quest, two wretch­es for his sup­per chose. So is re­mem­brance by this meal of­fend­ed, It makes me trem­ble yet: this done, he goes; And be­ing gone, the king his goat­ish vest Casts off, and folds his la­dy to his breast.

L “Where­as she him with plea­sure should de­scry, She, see­ing him, but suf­fers grief and pain. She sees him thith­er but ar­rived to die, Who can­not hin­der her from be­ing slain. ` “Twas no small joy ‘mid all the woes, that.’ To him ex­claimed Lu­ci­na, ‘here sus­tain. That thou wert not among us found to-​day, When hith­er I was brought, the mon­ster’s prey.

LI ” `For though to find my­self about to leave This life be bit­ter and af­flict me sore, Such is our com­mon in­stinct, I should grieve But for my­self; but whether thee, be­fore Of af­ter me, the orc of life be­reave, As­sure thy­self thy death will pain me more Than mine.’ And thus the dame per­sists to moan More No­randi­no’s dan­ger than her own.

LII ” `A hope con­ducts me here,’ the monarch said, `To save thee and thy fol­low­ers ev­ery one; And, if I can­not, I were bet­ter dead, Than liv­ing with­out light of thee, my sun! I trust to scape, as hith­er I have spied; As ye shall all, if, as our­selves have done, To com­pass our de­sign, you do not shrink To im­bue your bod­ies with the loath­some stink.’

LI­II “The trick he told, where­with the mon­ster’s smell To cheat, as first to him the wife had told: In any case to cloathe us in the fell, That he may feel is is­sue­ing from the fold. As many men as wom­en in the cell, We slay (per­suad­ed by the monarch bold) As many goats as with our num­ber square, Of those which stink the most and old­est are.

LIV “We smeared our bod­ies with the fruit­ful grease Which round about the fat in­testines lay, And cloathed our bod­ies with the shag­gy fleece: This while from gold­en dwelling broke the day. And now, his flock re­turn­ing to re­lease, We viewed the shep­herd, with the dawn­ing ray; Who, giv­ing breath to the sonorous reeds, Piped forth his pris­oned flock to hill and meads.

LV “He held his hand be­fore the opened lair, Lest with the herd we is­sued from the den, And stopt us short; but feel­ing wool or hair Up­on our bod­ies, let us go again. By such a strange de­vice we res­cued were, Cloathed in our shag­gy fleeces, dames and men: Nor any is­su­ing thence the mon­ster kept, Till thith­er, sore alarmed, Lu­ci­na crept.

LVI “Lu­ci­na — whether she ab­horred the scent, And, like us oth­ers, loathed her­self to smear, — Or whether with a slow­er gait she went Than might like the pre­tend­ed beast’s ap­pear, — Or whether, when the orc her body hent, Her dread so mas­tered her, she screamed for fear, — Or that her hair es­caped from neck or brow, Was known; nor can I well in­form you how.

LVII “So were we all in­tent on our own case, We for an­oth­er’s dan­ger had no eyes: Him, turn­ing at the scream. I saw un­case Al­ready her whom he had made his prize, And force her to the cav­ern to re­trace Her steps: we, couch­ing in our quaint dis­guise, Wend with the flock, where us the shep­herd leads, Through ver­dant moun­tains, in­to pleas­ant meads.

LVI­II “There we await­ed, till be­neath the shade Se­cure, we saw the beaked orc asleep; When one along the shore of ocean made, And one be­took him to the moun­tain steep. King No­ran­dine his love alone de­layed; Who would re­turn dis­guised among the sheep, Nor from the place de­part, while life re­mained, Un­less his faith­ful con­sort he re­gained.

LIX “For when be­fore, on the flock is­su­ing out, He saw her pris­oned in the cave alone, In­to the orc’s wide throat he was about To spring; so grief had rea­son over­thrown, And he ad­vanced even to the mon­ster’s snout, And, but by lit­tle, scaped the grind­ing stone: Yet him the hope de­tained amid the flock, Trust­ing to bear Lu­ci­na from the rock.

LX “The orc, at eve, when to the cave again He brings the herd, nor finds us in the stall, And knows that he must sup­per­less re­main, Lu­ci­na guilty of the whole does call, Con­demned to stand, fast gird­ed with a chain, In open air, up­on the sum­mit tall. The king who caused her woes, with pity­ing eye Looks on, and pines, — and on­ly can­not die.

LXI “Morn­ing and evening, her, lament­ing sore, Ev­er the un­hap­py lover might sur­vey; What time he griev­ing went afield be­fore The is­su­ing flock, or home­ward took his way. She, with sad face, and sup­pli­ant ev­er­more, Signed that for love of Heav­en he would not stay; Since there he tar­ried at great risk of life. Nor could in any thing as­sist his wife.

LXII “So the orc’s wife, as well up­on her side, Im­plored him to de­part, but moved him nought; To go with­out Lu­ci­na he de­nied, And but re­mained more con­stant in his thought. In this sad servi­tude he long was tried, By Love and Pity bound: till For­tune brought A pair of war­riors to the rocky won, Gradas­so, and Agri­can’s re­doubt­ed son:

LXI­II “Where, with their arms so wrought the cham­pi­ons brave, They freed Lu­ci­na from the chains she wore, (Though he Wit less than For­tune served in save) And run­ning to the sea their bur­den bore: Her to her fa­ther, who was there, they gave. This was at morn, when in the cav­ern hoar, Mixt with the goats, king No­randi­no stood, Which ru­mi­nat­ing, chewed their grassy food:

LX­IV “But when, at day-​light, ’twas un­barred, and now He was in­struct­ed that his wife was gone; For the orc’s con­sort told the tale, and how, In ev­ery point, the thing re­hearsed was done; He thanked his God, and begged, with promised vow, That, since ’twas grant­ed her such ill to shun, He would di­rect his wife to some re­pair, Whence he might free her, by arms, gold, or prayer.

LXV “To­geth­er with the flat-​nosed herd his way He took, and for green meads re­joic­ing made. He here ex­pect­ed, till the mon­ster lay Ex­tend­ed, un­der­neath the gloomy shade: Then jour­neyed all the night and all the day; Till, of the cru­el orc no more afraid, He climbed a bark on Sa­talia’s strand, And, three days past, ar­rived on Syr­ian land.

LXVI “In Cyprus, and in Rhodes, by tow­er and town, Which in near Egypt, Turkey, or Afric lay, The king bade seek Lu­ci­na up and down, Nor could hear news of her till the oth­er day. The oth­er day, his fa­ther-​in-​law made known He had her safe with him. What caused her stay In Nicosia was a cru­el gale Which had long time been ad­verse to her sail.

LXVII “The king, for plea­sure of the tid­ings true, Pre­pares the cost­ly feast in solemn state; And will on each fourth moon that shall en­sue Make one, re­sem­bling this we cel­ebrate. Pleased of that time the mem­ory to re­new, That he, in the orc’s cav­ern, had to wait, — For four months and a day — which is to-​mor­row; When he was res­cued from such cru­el sor­row.

LXVI­II “The things re­lat­ed I in part de­scried, And from him, present at the whole, heard more; From No­ran­dine, through cal­end and through ide, Pent, till he changed to smiles his an­guish sore: And if from oth­er you hear aught be­side, Say, he is ill in­struct­ed in his lore.” The Syr­ian gen­tle­man did thus dis­play The oc­ca­sion of that feast and fair ar­ray.

LX­IX Large por­tion of the night, in like dis­course, Was by those cav­aliers to­geth­er spent, Who deemed that Love and Pity’s mick­le force Was proved in that so dread ex­per­iment; Then ris­ing, when the sup­per’s sump­tu­ous course Was cleared, to good and pleas­ant lodg­ings went; And, as the en­su­ing morn­ing fair­ly broke, To sounds of tri­umph and re­joic­ing woke.

LXX The cir­cling drums’ and trum­pets’ echo­ing strain As­sem­ble all the town with­in the square; And now, when mixt with sound of horse and wain, Loud out­cries through the streets re­peat­ed are, Sir Gryphon dons his glit­ter­ing arms again, A panoply of those es­teemed most rare; Whose mail, im­pass­able by spear or brand, She, the white fay, had tem­pered with her hand.

LXXI The man of An­ti­och in his com­pa­ny, Armed him (a recre­ant worse than he was none), Pro­vid­ed by their land­lord’s cour­tesy With stur­dy spears and good, the course to run; Who with his kin­dred, a fair chival­ry, To bring the war­riors to the square is gone; With squires afoot and mount­ed up­on steeds, Whom he be­stowed, as aptest for their needs.

LXXII They in the square ar­rived and stood aside, Nor of them­selves awhile would make dis­play; Bet­ter to see the mar­tial gal­lants ride By twos and threes, or singly, to the fray. One told, by colours cun­ning­ly al­lied, His joy or sor­row to his la­dy gay; One, with a paint­ed Love on crest or shield, If she were cru­el or were kind, re­vealed.

LXXI­II It was the Syr­ians’ prac­tise in that age To arm them in this fash­ion of the west. Hap­ly this sprung out of their vic­inage And con­stant com­merce with the Franks, pos­sest In those days of the sa­cred her­itage, That God in­car­nate with his pres­ence blest; Which now, to them aban­doned by the train Of wretched Chris­tians, hea­then hounds pro­fane.

LXXIV God’s wor­ship­pers, where they should couch the lance, For fur­ther­ance of his holy faith and true, Against each oth­er’s breast the spear ad­vance, To the de­struc­tion of the faith­ful few. You men of Spain, and you, ye men of France, And Switzers, turn your steps else­where , and you, Ye Ger­mans, wor­thi­er em­pire to ac­quire; For that is won for Christ, which you de­sire.

LXXV If ver­ily most Chris­tian you would be, — I speak to you, that catholic are hight — Why slain by you Christ’s peo­ple do I see? Where­fore are they de­spoiled of their right? Why seek you not Jerusalem to free From rene­gades? By Turk­ish Moslemite Im­pure, why is Byzan­tium, with the best And fairest por­tion of the world, pos­sest?

LXXVI Thou Spain, hast thou not fruit­ful Afric nigh? And has she not in sooth of­fend­ed more Than Italy? yet her to scathe, that high, And no­ble, en­ter­prize wilt thou give o’er. Alas! thou sleep­est, drunk­en Italy, Of ev­ery vice and crime the fetid sew­er! Nor grievest, as a hand-​maid, to obey, In turn, the na­tions that have owned thy sway.

LXXVII If fear of fam­ish­ing with­in thy cave, Switzer, does thee to Lom­bardy con­vey, And thou, among our peo­ple, dost but crave A hand to give thee dai­ly bread, or slay, — The Turk has ready wealth; across the wave, Drive him from Eu­rope or from Greece away: So shalt thou in those parts have where­with­al To feed thy hunger, or more nobly fall.

LXXVI­II I to the Ger­man neigh­bour of thy lair Say what I say to thee; the wealth o’ the west, Which Con­stan­tine brought off from Rome, is there — Brought off the choic­est, gave away the rest — There gold­en Her­mus and Pacto­lus are, Myg­do­nia and Ly­dia: nor that coun­try blest, Which many tales for many prais­es note, If thou wouldst thith­er wend, is too re­mote.

LXXIX Thou mighty Li­on, that art charged to keep The keys of Par­adise, a weighty care, Oh! let not Italy lie plunged in sleep, If thy strong hand is plant­ed in her hair. To thee, his shep­herd, God, to guide his sheep, Has giv­en that wand and fu­ri­ous name to bear; That thou may’st roar, and wide thine arms ex­tend, And so from greedy wolves thy flock de­fend.

LXXX But whith­er have I roved! who ev­er­more So from one top­ic to the oth­er stray? Yet think not I the road I kept be­fore To have missed so far, but I can find my way. I said, the Syr­ians then ob­served the lore Or arm­ing like the Chris­tians of that day. So that Dam­as­cus’ crowd­ed square was bright With corslet, plate, and helm of belt­ed knight.

LXXXI The love­ly ladies from their scaf­folds throw Up­on the jousters yel­low flow­ers and red; While these, as loud the brazen trum­pets blow, Make their steeds leap and wheel and proud­ly tread. Each, rode he well or ill, his art would show, And with the gor­ing spur his cours­er bled. Hence this good cav­alier earns fame and praise, While oth­ers scorn­ful hoots and laugh­ter raise.

LXXXII A suit of arms was prize of the as­say, Pre­sent­ed to the king some days be­fore; Which late a mer­chant found up­on the way Re­turn­ing from Ar­me­nia; this the more To grace, a vest, with no­blest tis­sue gay, The Syr­ian king sub­joined, so pow­dered o’er With jew­els, gold, and pearls in rich de­vice, They made the meed a thing of pass­ing price.

LXXXI­II If the good king had known the panoply, This he had held above all oth­ers dear; Nor this had giv­en, as full of cour­tesy, To be con­tent­ed for with sword and spear. ‘Twere long to tell who so un­worthi­ly Had erst mis­treat­ed thus the good­ly gear, That lay the way the har­ness had been strowed, A prey to whoso­ev­er past the road.

LXXXIV Of this you more in oth­er place shall hear. Of Gryphon now I tell, who at the just Ar­rived, saw bro­ken many a knight­ly spear, And more than one good stroke and one good thrust. Eight were there who made league to­geth­er, dear To No­ran­dine, and held in sovereign trust; Youths quick in arms and prac­tised in the shock: All lords, or scions of il­lus­tri­ous stock.

LXXXV At open bar­ri­ers, one by one, the place They kept against all com­ers for a day; At first with lance, and next with sword or mace, While them the king de­light­ed to sur­vey. Oft­times they pierce the corslet’s iron case, And ev­ery thing in fine per­form in play, Which foe­men do that dead­ly weapons mea­sure, Save that the king may part them at his plea­sure.

LXXXVI That wit­less An­ti­ochite, who, worthi­ly, By name was cow­ard­ly Mar­tano hight, Think­ing, be­cause his com­rade, he must be Par­tak­er of the no­ble Gryphon’s might, In­to the mar­tial press rides valiant­ly, Then stops; and the is­sue of a fu­ri­ous fight, Which had be­gun be­tween two cav­aliers, To wait, re­tir­ing from the strife, ap­pears.

LXXXVII Se­leu­cia’s lord, of those com­pan­ions one, Com­bined in that em­prize to keep the place, Who then a course with bold Om­bruno run, Wound­ed the un­hap­py war­rior in mid-​face, So that he slew him; mourned by ev­ery one, Who as a wor­thy knight the war­rior grace, And over and above his worth, be­fore All oth­ers, hold him for his cour­te­ous lore.

LXXXVI­II When vile Mar­tano from his place dis­cerned The fate which might be his with fear­ful eye, In­to his craven na­ture be re­turned, And straight be­gan to think how he might fly: But him from flight the watch­ful Gryphon turned, And, af­ter much ado, with act and cry, Urged him against a knight up­on the ground, As at the raven­ing wolf men slip the hound.

LXXXIX Who will pur­sue the brindled beast for ten, Or twen­ty yards, and, af­ter, stop to bay; When he be­holds his flash­ing eyes, and when He sees the gries­ly beast his teeth dis­play. ‘Twas thus, be­fore those valiant gen­tle­men And princes, present there in fair ar­ray, Fear­ful Mar­tano, seized with pan­ic dread, Turned to the right his cours­er’s rein and head.

XC Yet he who would ex­cuse the sud­den wheel, Up­on his cours­er might the blame be­stow: But, af­ter, he so ill his strokes did deal, De­mos­thenes his cause might well forego. With pa­per armed he seems, and not with steel, So shrinks he at the wind of ev­ery blow: At length he breaks the or­dered cham­pi­ons through, Amid loud laugh­ter from the cir­cling crew.

XCI Clap­ping of hands, and cries, at ev­ery turn, Were heard from all that rub­ble wide­ly spread. As a wolf sore­ly hunt­ed makes re­turn To earth, to his re­treat Mar­tano fled. Gryphon re­mained, and sul­lied with the scorn Es­teemed him­self, which on his mate was shed; And rather than be there, he, in his ire, Would glad­ly find him­self i’ the midst of fire.

XCII With burn­ing heart, and vis­age red with shame, He thinks the knight’s dis­grace is all his own, Be­cause by deeds like his with whom he came, He weens the mob ex­pects to see him known. So that it now be­hoves his val­our flame More clear than light, or they, to cen­sure prone, — Errs he a fin­ger’s breadth — an inch — will swell His fault, and of that inch will make an ell.

XCI­II Al­ready he the lance up­on his thigh Has rest­ed, lit­tle used to miss the foe: Then makes with flow­ing rein his cours­er fly, And next, somedeal ad­vanced, di­rects the blow; And, smit­ing, puts to the last agony Sido­nia’s youth­ful lord, by him laid low. O’er­come with won­der each as­sis­tant ris­es, Whom sore the un­ex­pect­ed deed sur­pris­es.

XCIV Gryphon re­turned, and did the weapon wield. Whole and re­cov­ered, which he couched be­fore, And in three pieces broke it on the shield Which bold Laodicea’s baron bore. Thrice of four times about to press the field He seemed, and lay along the crup­per, sore As­tound; yet rose at length, un­sheathed his blade, Wheeled his good cours­er, and at Gryphon made.

XCV Gryphon, who in his sad­dle sees the peer Ad­vanc­ing to­wards him, nor un­seat­ed by The en­counter, says: “The fail­ure of the spear In a few strokes the sabre shall sup­ply;” And on his tem­ples smote a stroke so shear, It seemed that it de­scend­ed from the sky; And matched it with an­oth­er, and again An­oth­er, till he stretched him on the plain.

XCVI Here two good broth­ers of Apamia were, In tour­ney wont to have the up­per hand: Corim­bo named and Thyr­sis was the pair; Both over­turned by Gryphon on the land. One at the en­counter left his sad­dle bare, On the oth­er Gryphon used his tren­chant brand: This valiant knight, was, in the com­mon trust, Sure to ob­tain the hon­ours of the just.

XCVII Bold Sal­in­ter­no, mid the war­like train, Was in the lists, vizier and mar­shal hight, Who had the gov­ern­ment of all that reign, And was, with­al, a puis­sant man of might: The tour­ney’s prize he sees, with much dis­dain, About to be borne off by for­eign knight. A lance he snatch­es, and to Gryphon cries, And him with many men­aces de­fies.

XCVI­II But he makes an­swer with a massy spear, Out of ten oth­ers cho­sen as the best; And lev­el­ling at the buck­ler of the peer, For greater sure­ty, pierces plate and breast. ‘Twixt rib and rib, it bored the cav­alier, Is­su­ing a palm be­hind. To all the rest, The king ex­cept­ed, wel­come was the blow: For each was greedy Sal­in­ter­no’s foe.

XCIX Two of Dam­as­cus next Sir Gryphon sped, Her­mophi­lo and Car­mon­do. This, ar­raid Un­der his flag, the king’s mili­tia led; That was as lord high ad­mi­ral obeyed. This light­ly at the shock on earth was shed, And that, re­versed, up­on the ground o’er­laid By his weak horse, too fee­ble to with­stand Sir Gryphon’s mighty push and puis­sant hand.

C Yet in the field re­mained Se­leu­cia’s knight, The best of all the oth­er sev­en at need; And one who well ac­com­pa­nied his might With per­fect ar­mour and a gal­lant steed. Both at the hel­met, where it locks, take sight, And with their spears to the en­counter speed: But Gryphon hard­est smote, whose payn­im foe Lost his left stir­rup, stag­gered by the blow.

CI They cast the trun­cheons down, their cours­ers wheel, And, full of dar­ing, with drawn fal­chions close. Sir Gryphon was the first a stroke to deal, Which might have split an anvil; at the blow’s De­scent, the shield is splin­tered — bone and steel — This had its lord mid thou­sand oth­ers chose; And, but ’twas dou­ble, and the coat as well, The sword had cleft the thigh on which it fell.

CII He of Se­leu­cia at Sir Gryphon’s casque, At the same time, so fell a blow ad­drest, It would have rent and torn the iron mask, Had it not been en­chant­ed like the rest. The payn­im’s labour is a fruit­less task, Of arms so hard Sir Gryphon is pos­sest; Who has the foe’s al­ready cleft and broke In many parts, nor thrown away a stroke.

CI­II Each one might see how much Se­leu­cia’s lord Was over­matched by Gryphon, and that day, The worsted men had per­ished by the sword, Had not the monarch quick­ly stopt the fray. To his guard king No­randi­no spake the word, And bade them en­ter, and the du­el stay: They part the knight, whom they asun­der bear, And much the king is laud­ed for his care.

CIV The eight, who had to keep the field pre­tend­ed From all the world, nor yet their part had done On a sole knight, — their quar­rel ill de­fend­ed, — Had van­ished from the tilt-​yard one by one. The oth­ers, who with them should have con­tend­ed, Stood idle; for to an­swer them was none. Since Gryphon had fore­stalled, in the de­bate, What they should all have done against those eight;

CV And, for such lit­tle time en­dured the play, Less than an hour suf­ficed to fin­ish all. But No­ran­dine, the pas­time to de­lay, And to con­tin­ue it till even-​fall, De­scend­ing from his place, bade clear the way; And the huge squad di­vid­ed, at his call, In­to two troops, whom, ranked by blood and might, The monarch formed, and marched for oth­er fight.

CVI Sir Gryphon, dur­ing this, had made re­turn Home­ward, with anger and with fury stung; Less think­ing of his hon­ours that the scorn Which on the vile Mar­tano had been flung. Hence, from him­self the op­pro­bri­ous shame to turn, Mar­tano now em­ploys his ly­ing tongue; And she, the false and cun­ning courtezan, As­sists him in his scheme as best she can.

CVII Whether the youth be­lieved the tale or no, He the ex­cuse re­ceived, like one dis­creet; And deemed it best for them at once to go, And se­cret­ly and silent­ly re­treat, For fear, that if the pop­ulace should know Mar­tano base, they him might ill en­treat. So, by short ways and close, they quit the abode, And is­sue from the gates up­on their road.

CVI­II Sir Gryphon, was he or his horse fore­done With toil, or was it sleep his eyes down weighed, Ere yet the troop be­yond two miles had gone, At the first inn up­on the high­way stayed. He doffed his ar­mour all, and mori­on, And had the steeds of trap­pings dis­ar­rayed; And next alone he to a cham­ber sped, Locked him­self in, un­drest, and went to bed.

CIX No soon­er he his head had rest­ed there, Than, with deep sleep op­prest, he closed his eye: So heav­ily, no bad­gers in their lair, Or dormice, over­come with slum­ber, lie. Mar­tano and Orig­ille, to take the air, En­tered this while a gar­den which was nigh; And there the strangest fraud to­geth­er bred, Which ev­er en­tered in­to mor­tal head.

CX Mar­tano schemed to take away the steed And gear, in which Sir Gryphon had been dight, And stand be­fore the monarch, in the weed Of him who had in joust so proved his might. As he had shaped in thought, he did the deed: He took away the war­rior’s horse, more white Than milk, his buck­ler, sur­coat, arms, and crest; In all Sir Gryphon’s knight­ly en­signs drest.

CXI He, who was clad in trap­pings not his own, Like the ass man­tled in the li­on’s hide, As he ex­pect­ed, to the king, un­known, Was called in place of Gryphon: when de­scried Or No­ran­dine, he ris­ing from his throne, Em­braced and kissed, and placed him by his side: Nor deems enough to praise and hold him dear, But wills that all around his praise should hear:

CXII And bids them the sonorous met­al blow, Pro­claim­ing him the con­queror of that day: And round about loud voic­es, high and low, The un­wor­thy name through­out the lists con­vey. He wills that, side by side, with him shall go The knight, when home­ward he shall take his way; And him such favour shows, in­tent to please, As might have hon­oured Mars or Her­cules.

CXI­II Him lodg­ings fair he gave, where­in to dwell At court; and she who with the peer did ride Was hon­oured by the cour­te­ous king as well, — False Orig­ille, — with knight and page sup­plied. But it is time that I of Gryphon tell; Who un­sus­pect­ing, she, or wight be­side, Him would with treach­er­ous stratagem de­ceive, Had fall­en asleep, nor ev­er waked till eve.

CX­IV When he how late it was, awak­ing, knew, With speed he from the cham­ber did with­draw; And has­tened where he, with the oth­er crew, Left Orig­ille and her false broth­er-​in-​law: And when, nor these, nor, up­on bet­ter view, His ar­mour nor his wont­ed clothes he saw, Sus­pi­cious waxed; and more sus­pi­cion bred The en­signs of his com­rade left in­stead.

CXV The host, ar­riv­ing, him at full pos­sest Of ev­ery thing, — and how, in white ar­ray, That war­rior, with the la­dy and the rest, Had to the city mea­sured back their way. By lit­tle and by lit­tle, Gryphon guessed What love from him had hid­den till that day; And knew, to his great sor­row, in the oth­er Orig­ille’s paramour, and not her broth­er.

CXVI Now he lament­ing for his fol­ly stood, That hav­ing heard the truths the pil­grim said, He should have let her sto­ry change his mood, Who him be­fore so of­ten had be­trayed. He might have venged him­self, nor did: — now wou’d, Too late, in­flict the pun­ish­ment de­laid; Con­strained (a cry­ing er­ror!) in his need To take that wily trea­chour’s arms and steed.

CXVII He bet­ter would have gone like naked man, Than braced the un­wor­thy cuirass on his breast; Or has­tened the de­test­ed shield to span, Or place up­on his helm the scorned crest. But of the lover, and that courtezan, He, pas­sion mas­ter­ing rea­son, took the quest: And bend­ing to Dam­as­cus’ gate his way, Ar­rived an hour be­fore the close of day.

CXVI­II On the left hand a cas­tle rich­ly dight Stood nigh the gate, to which Sir Gryphon rode. Be­sides, that it was strong and armed for fight, Filled with rare cham­bers was the rich abode. The first of Syr­ia, king, and lord, and knight, And la­dy, in a gen­tle group be­stowed, There in an open gallery fair­ly met, Were at their glad and cost­ly sup­per set.

CX­IX With the high tow­er the beau­teous gallery, clear Be­yond the city-​wall, pro­ject­ed out, From whence might be dis­cov­ered, far and near, The spa­cious fields and dif­fer­ent roads about. When Gryphon now, in his op­pro­bri­ous gear, And arms, dis­hon­oured by the rab­ble’s flout, Makes, by ill for­tune, to the gate re­sort, He by the king is seen, and all his court;

CXX And, tak­en for the man whose crest he wears, In dame and knight moves laugh­ter, through the ring. The vile Mar­tano, as a man who shares The roy­al grace, sits next be­low the king; And next, she, whom her love so fit­ly pairs; Whom No­randi­no gai­ly ques­tion­ing. De­mands of them, who is the cow­ard knight, That of his hon­our makes so pass­ing light;

CXXI Who, af­ter feat so base and foul, anew Ap­proach­es, with such front and shame­less cheer, — And cries, “It seems a thing un­heard, that you, An ex­cel­lent and wor­thy cav­alier, Should take this man for your com­pan­ion, who Has not in all our wide Lev­ant his peer. Did you with him for con­trast-​sake com­bine, That so your val­our might more bright­ly shine?

CXXII “– But did not love for you my will re­strain, By the eter­nal gods, I tru­ly swear, He should en­dure such ig­no­min­ious stain, As I am wont to make his fel­lows share: Him would I make of my long-​nursed dis­dain Of cow­ardice per­pet­ual record bear. To you, by whom he hith­er was con­veyed, If now un­pun­ished, let his thanks be paid.”

CXXI­II That ves­sel of all filthy vices, he, Made an­swer: “Mighty sir, I can­not say Who is the stranger, that fell in with me Jour­ney­ing from An­ti­och hith­er, by the way: But him I wor­thy of my com­pa­ny Deemed, by his war­like sem­blance led astray. I noth­ing of his deeds have heard or seen, Save what ill feats to-​day have wit­nessed been;

CXXIV “Which moved me so, it lit­tle lacked but I, For pun­ish­ment of his un­wor­thy fear, Had put him out of case again to ply, In mar­tial tour­na­ment, the sword or spear; And, but in rev­er­ence to your majesty And pres­ence, I for­bore by hand to rear, Not for his sake: — nor by thy mer­cy showed On him, as my com­pan­ion on the road;

CXXV “Whose for­mer fel­low­ship ap­pears a stain; And ev­er ’twill sit heavy at my heart, If I, un­in­jured, see the wretch again ‘Scape, to the scan­dal of the war­like art. ‘Twere bet­ter he from tow­er, a wor­thy pain, Were gib­bet­ed, than suf­fered to de­part: Hung as a bea­con for the cow­ard’s gaze. Such were a prince­ly deed, and wor­thy praise.”

CXXVI A vouch­er he in Orig­illa had, Who well, with­out a sign, his pur­pose read. “I deem not,” cried the king, “his works so bad, That they should cost the stranger knight his head: Enough that he again the peo­ple glad, For penance of his weighty sin.” This said, He quick­ly called a baron of his crew, And him en­joined the deed he was to do.

CXXVII With many armed men that baron fares, And to the city-​gate de­scend­ing, here Col­lects his troop, and for the at­tempt pre­pares, Wait­ing the com­ing of the cav­alier; And him sur­pris­es so at un­awares, He, soft­ly, ‘twixt two bridges, takes the peer; And him de­tains, with mock­ery and scorn, In a dark cham­ber, till re­turn­ing morn.

CXXVI­II The ear­ly sun had scarce his gold­en hair Up­lift­ed from his an­cient nurse’s breast, Be­gin­ning, up­on Alpine re­gions bare, To chase the shades and gild the moun­tain-​crest, When Mar­tan’, fear­ing Gryphon might de­clare His wrong, and to the king the truth at­test, Re­tort­ing up­on him the slan­der cast, Took leave, and thence up­on his jour­ney past.

CXXIX His ready wit a fit ex­cuse sup­plies Why he stays not, to see the recre­ant shown. He is with oth­er gifts, be­side the prize, Re­ward­ed for the vic­to­ry, not his own, And let­ters patent, drawn in am­ple wise, Where­in his lofty hon­ours wide are blown. Let him de­part; I promise he shall meet A guer­don wor­thy of his treach­er­ous feat.

CXXX Gryphon is brought with shame in­to the square, When it is ful­ly thronged with gaz­ing wight, Whom they of cuirass and of hel­met bare, And leave in sim­ple cas­sock, mean­ly dight; And, as to slaugh­ter he con­duct­ed were, Place on a wain, con­spic­uous to the sight; Har­nessed to which two slug­gish cows are seen, Weary and weak, and with long hunger lean.

CXXXI Throng­ing about the ig­no­ble car, ap­pear Brazen-​faced boy and girl of evil fame, Who, each in turn, will play the char­io­teer, And all as­sail the knight with bit­ter blame. The boys might be a cause of greater fear, For, joined to mocks and mows, and words of shame, The war­rior they with volleyed stones would slay, But that the wis­er few their fury stay.

CXXXII That which of his dis­grace had been the ground, Though no true ev­idence of guilt, his mail And plate, are dragged in due dis­hon­our round, Sus­pend­ed at the shame­ful wag­gon’s tail. The wain is stopt, and to the trum­pet’s sound, Her­alds, in front of a tri­bunal’s pale, His shame, be­fore his eyes, amid the crowd, (An­oth­er’s evil deed) pro­claim aloud.

CXXXI­II They take their pris­on­er thence, and so re­pair In front of tem­ple, dwelling-​house, and store; Nor any cru­el name of mock­ery spare, Nor leave un­said a word of filthy lore; And him at last with­out the city bear: The fool­ish rab­ble, trust­ing ev­er­more Their thrall to ban­ish to the sound of blows, Who pass­ing lit­tle of its pris­on­er knows.

CXXXIV The war­rior’s gyves no soon­er they un­do, And from their man­acles free ei­ther hand, Than Gryphon seizes shield and sword, and, through The rab­ble, makes long fur­rows with his brand. With pike and spear un­fur­nished was the crew, Who with­out weapons came, a wit­less band. The rest for oth­er can­to I sus­pend, For, sir, ’tis time this song should have an end.